HOUSE HUNTER:Exhausted from commuting and fed up with petrol station sausages, one commuter explains why he and his family are hunting for a house in Dublin

THERE’S A rumour that there’s bargains to be had on today’s property market. My mum says so, and she knows everything. There’s only two problems.

Can you prise the cash from your reluctant local bank, and can you get someone to accept your offer? The answer is, yes. And no.

For my wife and I, looking to relocate to Dublin, things are not as simple as you’d think. We have dragged our tired, numbed rear ends every day from Carlow to Dublin for two years and by now we’re sick of every inch of the godforsaken N7. Carlow town is lovely, at least what we get to see of it.

But after living the commuter dream, we reached the tearful conclusion that we don’t want to play chicken with Ford Transits for the rest of our days.

On announcing our planned return to the Big Smoke, our friends breathed a collective sigh of relief. We might be enjoyable company again, instead of being two cranky, bleary eyed creatures paying a mortgage to live in a VW Golf.

We believed the hype of the boom years. Our estate was marketed for those who were cruelly priced out of their natural urban(e) habitat. Carlow is just 50 minutes from Dublin, so what was there to lose?

Initially we couldn’t believe our luck. Having heard the horror stories of bidding wars over the meagre scraps of available Dublin property, we counted our blessings for living in a clean, quiet estate on the edge of a nice provincial town.

It began to turn sour when we took up hunting to fit in with the ostensibly rural community. Hunting, that is, for a copy of the Guardian, or a yoga class. Other pitfalls emerged later to living beyond the pale. We suffer from chronic exhaustion, related health issues, social isolation and an addiction to petrol station sausages.

And 50 minutes from Newland’s Cross is not the same as 50 minutes from Dublin.

We were hoodwinked! It’s like going to a viewing at the gates of hell to be told by a straight-faced demon in a cheap suit that you can enjoy breathtaking views of the lake of fire. From the roof garden. If you stretch out.

The two obstacles in our way to moving to the capital are neatly inter-related: getting a mortgage and getting a house.

Sure, there’s loads of houses for sale, but unless you’ve saved up since before your First Communion, you’ll be disappointed.

All the banks have left in the kitty is a stack of IOUs and a crumpled picture of Charlie McCreevy.

During the boom, many friends of ours could march into their lender of choice, demand a 15,000 per cent mortgage, get a little extra on top, a puppy and the bank manager’s first born child.

Did we have any cash? Er, not as such. How would we possibly get anything more than scornful ridicule?

We had to hatch a plan. If we had that, we’d just need to keep our nerve in the bank manager’s office, filled with a mix of awe and blind terror – like dealing with a cross between Nelson Mandela and an axe-wielding maniac.

It seemed like the fool’s errand to beat all fool’s errands. My wife looked at me before our first meeting. “Leave it to me,” she said calmly. I had to be stretchered out. Yes, we were a safe bet, having secure-ish jobs. Yes, we’d get a mortgage. We just didn’t have a clue what our price range was.

We started making offers on houses anyway. We looked at anything we came across, wildly guessing what we could afford and taking a chance.

There are, however, many ways to be told to sod off. “I couldn’t possibly take that to the vendor,” being the most polite answer from estate agents. Other responses were less charming.

So while we have the money, the question is, will someone take it, or will they hold out for more than the small fortune we’re willing to spend.

All I know is, my poker face is improving and my neck has a lot more brass. We want to find a bargain and fast. We’re ready to go.

The search starts next week